Here the steward said something in a low voice to Mr. Prance, who looked at me, and said in a hollow tragic tone: ‘Five of the monkeys have gone dead, sir.’
I called the news down the table to the captain.
‘I’m sorry to hear it, Mr. Dugdale,’ he answered in a dry voice; ‘but you don’t want me to open a subscription list for the widows, do ye?’
‘Can any one say if the little chap with the red waistcoat’s dead?’ cried Mr. Colledge.
‘Dead hand gone, sir,’ exclaimed the cockney head steward.
‘What is left of the lot?’ inquired Keeling.
‘The hape, sir; and the two little chaps that was rescued with their tails half ate up, as is supposed by themselves,’ responded the steward.
Mr. Johnson burst out a-laughing.
‘Tails eaten up!’ cried Mrs. Bannister, poising a pair of gold glasses upon her Roman nose as she addressed the captain. ‘Are there any sharks here?’
‘I should say not, madam,’ answered the skipper. ‘It is a trick monkeys fall into of biting their own tails, as human beings gnaw their finger-nails.’